


R2

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (not more than canon would do on-screen), Abuse, Abusive John Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bondage, Drugging, Fighting, M/M, Monster - Freeform, Non-consensual themes, POV Dean Winchester, Pre-Season/Series 01, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23713174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: Dean sneaks out of the motel room he’s sharing with John once John goes to sleep. His plans are to either get further with the hunt, or sleep with someone, but either way, he’s getting alcohol. Things go bad very fast when Dean meets a young man at the bar.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	R2

**Author's Note:**

> I did not edit this because I don’t feel well and my skin’s pretending it’s on fire. So voilà. I got the idea for while watching Dean talk to Sam about roofies in 9x13 “The Purge.”
> 
> Honestly, warnings are in the tags. You clicked, you know what you’re in for. The worst part is probably the drugging.

Dean wasn’t allowed to hunt on his own, but when Dad was sleeping, that didn’t stop him from doing some investigating of his own. It never really was much that he accomplished given his small time frame, and what he did discover he’d have to discreetly tip John off to and make it seem like one of his now-many brilliant ideas. So sometimes it was pointless. Sometimes it was something he couldn’t always do. But with this case, college girls were getting taken, and no bodies were ever found.

If asked about why he was doing the extra work during the night he already had a few good lies: “ _ Come on, Dad. They’re  _ college girls _. _ ” “ _ I was with one of the girls, havin’ a little fun — you know — just accidently stumbled upon it. _ ” Those could work. His dad was damn proud to have a “red-blooded American son,” which explained the other reasons Dean went out at night. Sometimes he’d want a little somethin’-somethin’, and not from the opposite sex.

Dean was at a bar the last two vics had gone missing in. So either he’d find something, or he’d get to go home with someone. Either way, there was plenty of alcohol.

Dean had finished up his second beer of the night when the bartender pushed a fifth of whiskey, neat, over towards him. With a smile, ready to charm anyone in case he ever needed something, he pushed it back.

“Thanks, but I didn’t order this.”

The bartender finished wiping his hand on a white towel he’d been holding, and then pointed far off into the corner, Dean twisting to follow, eyes landing on a man who was probably around his own age. “No, but he did.” The bartender got back to work.

Just a little surprised, Dean nodded at the man who’d ordered him the drink, raising his eyebrows slightly in recognition. He had had his eyes glued to Dean even before he’d turn around it seemed, and the brown smoldered dark. A devilish smile that looked like art on his face with the smooth jawline quirked his lips up. Dean grabbed his drink, but didn’t drink it, just fully turned to him on the stool, and tapped the rim, winking. The man’s smile parted his pink lips and showed perfect teeth. He got up and came over to Dean.

The man temporarily took the glass from him.

“So, you gonna drink this?” he asked. “Or do I have to?”

“Depends,” Dean said, watching the man’s long fingers rhythmically move around the top of the glass in the dim light. “Do I get to drink somewhere else after, maybe somewhere a little more… private?”

His drink had been handed back to him, the man taking the stool beside him.

“And here I am supposed to be smooth,” he said. “You jumped right to it.”

Dean shrugged, raising the glass to have a sip, pretending it was nothing. But really, his cheeks were starting to blush with excitement.

“I’m Ken,” the man greeted, discreetly placing a hand on Dean’s knee, caressing before bringing his hand back to his own personal space so no one would notice. Dean noticed him checking around the bar. 

“No one’s watching us,” Dean assured, taking a long swallow and putting the glass down. Even as he did that he came up with a joke about Ken’s name. He was feeling a little tipsy, so he easily assumed it was worth a try.

“How do you know?”

Dean wasn’t about to answer that he’d been watching everyone else, and if he’d been at all as vigilant as Dean, and not so distracted, he would’ve noticed the bar was clearing out anyway. So instead he said, “The name’s Eddie. Eddie Van.” He gestured to Ken, down, in between his legs. “So what’s the deal? You like a Ken doll down there? Smooth as a baby’s butt?”

Ken leaned forward.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“You come with the Magic Earring?” Dean teased, hoping Ken would catch onto his cock ring joke.

Before he got a proper answer, Dean’s vision started growing out of focus. He checked his glass, making sure it  _ had _ been whiskey. It had certainly tasted like it.

Frowning, Dean blinked forcefully a few times. His head suddenly felt light, like maybe someone had scooped the front of his brain out.

Still frowning at the cup, he saw Ken’s gorgeous hand take it, and then he took Dean under the chin. Dean felt too sluggish to move away.

Where was Dean?

He knew he was with… was with…

Ken.

Right, Ken.

He opened his right hand, the one that had been over his drink earlier. Dean saw flecks of white powder, almost like confectioner’s sugar, but finer.

Ken’s mouth moved and Dean couldn’t make out the words at first. But then his brain made sense of it: “Powdered rohypnol. Real easy to get if you know where to look.”

It struck Dean that maybe he should be panicking, but before the reaction kicked in — and maybe it never would — he slumped down on the counter and his world went black.

Sweat caught in Dean’s eyebrow, and it was building up there as more ran down his forehead, beading in the dark brown hairs. They started trickling lower on his skin, threatening to get in his eye. Dean tried lifting up a hand to wipe the sweat away, but something held him fast.

He grumbled, and tried opening his eyes. They felt heavy. Eventually he was able to do so.

Dean didn’t know where he was. It looked like an unfinished basement. The bartender was there, standing by the stairs. Dean’s vision started going fuzzy before he could find Ken, but then there was a hand on his chin.

“Look at me,” a voice commanded.

Dean groaned, wanting to say something snarky, but words couldn’t come to him. Still, his mouth opened, as if it thought it might as well try to say something. Any attempt at a word was slurred. Again, Dean tried to move his hands. There was something rough around his wrists. And he leaned against something hard, back and head aching. Was that metal?

His face was shaken roughly, making Dean so dizzy he felt like he was going to be sick. Maybe the dizziness had already been there.

“Look at me,” the voice repeated.

Dean blearily opened his eyes, and fought to keep them that way. Ken stared back at him.

“Whuz… Whuz… g’ inn on.”

“You may leave, David.”

_ Who the… _

_ Hell. _

The bartender started leaving up the stairs.

Ken stared into Dean’s eyes, and Dean just tried pulling his head back, glaring at him. Everything felt slow, like moving through mud. Yet it was more like those nightmares everyone got where you tried to run, and you couldn’t move, even while you tried, even while you thought maybe you were moving.

Ken brought his lips close to Dean’s, and Dean let out a noise that was rather undignified.

“Does daddy know you’re into pretty boys?” Ken asked. He studied Dean, turned his face to the side, as if he wanted to observe his cheekbones. It had a shudder go through Dean. More sweat beaded on his forehead. “I’m not usually into pretty boys,” he said. 

Then he came forward, and he bit at Dean’s earlobe. The sensation was pleasant, yet unwelcome. Dean tried to shift his legs, but instead they just started spasming. As he looked away from Ken, wishing he wasn’t there, he took in more of the room.

Plastic.

Lots of plastic.

Some strong, alcoholic scent stung his nose.

There were puddles and patches of dark red on the floor.

Huh…

_ Kinda… Kinda looks like blood. _

Then Dean saw a hand sticking out of one of the bags, the nails painted. And it didn’t seem to be attached to an arm.

Panic should’ve most certainly kicked in then, but it didn’t. Not even as Ken started feeling him over, and his hands were at his belt.

“Well, I’m more into girls,” Ken went on. “But I get rough with them.” He bared his teeth, and rather than the regular human ones he’d seen before, these were sharp. Dean had no idea what he was dealing with. “Have to hide the bodies somewhere. I promise I won’t be as rough with you. I’ll see if I can make you last at least a month. But you’ll die on me eventually. Doesn’t matter that you’re a hunter. You’re human.”

Dean tried to move as Ken’s lips crashed against his, tongue digging past them. His movements only aided in making it seem like he was reciprocating. Ken groaned, hand going into his jeans.

Dean didn’t know what to do.

Did he even have to do anything?

What was happening?

Dizziness passed over Dean in a strong wave, and he lost consciousness once more, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Dean awoke some time later, and he looked down, seeing if his pants were still on. Oh, thank god, they were. He leaned his head back, breathing hard. He didn’t feel different, didn’t feel like he’d been touched, or used. Dean was alone this time when he awoke. And he was much more coherent. But how the hell had he gotten down there? Why was he worried about his pants?

Dean frantically looked around, though he felt achy and groggy, and he noticed the bodies in the trash bags. They seemed to be severed, dismembered, decapitated — all those fun words.

_ What the hell? _

A door opened, a creak sounding up above, and then there were footsteps on the stairs.

“Oh good, Eddie, you’re awake. Though, your name’s not really Eddie. So… Dean Winchester, ready to try this again?”

“Ready to try what again, Barbie?” he spat.

Ken pouted. “Hmm… Here I thought you’d be more creative than that.”

Dean snarled at him. “Bite me.”

“Oh, I will.”

As Ken came over, Dean shifted around, feeling at the rope, and also checking to see if he felt the pressure of having objects in his pockets. No. Wallet gone, phone gone.

Fuck.

Dad wasn’t going to get him out of this one.

God, why couldn’t Dean have just stayed in the motel?

He’d had to go and get roofied. Yeah, that’ll prove he’s ready to hunt on his own.

“So,” Ken said, crouching down before him, squatting over his legs, “let’s do a take two on this.” He started undoing Dean’s belt, and Dean realized this seemed very familiar.

“What the hell did you do, you sick pervert?” Dean cried.

“Nothing yet. It’s boring when they’re asleep.”

“Oh great. Boring. That’s the last thing I’d want to be.”

Dean shifted his legs, tried pulling away as Ken slowly undid the zipper on his jeans. Sharp teeth came out, seemingly enjoying teasing him, enjoying the way Dean struggled. Before Dean could react, the monster had leaned forward, and latched down right on the meat of his shoulder. Dean screamed, but adrenaline soon washed in right after the pain. That hand was threatening to go in his pants. Teeth were tearing at him, blood spilling.

Dean bit him right back, hard, trying to bruise, to tear through flesh. He’d gotten his shoulder, and it was muscled, hard. Dean wasn’t able to break the skin, his teeth not sharp like a fucking monster’s. But still, Ken pulled back, screaming. While he was distracted, Dean kneed him in the crotch, headbutted him, and then kicked him. It left Dean a little sore, but it wasn’t anything he wasn’t used to. Though, something really hard had bumped against his forehead.

Something wet and hot dripped into Dean’s right eye.

Oh, he was bleeding.

A bloodied tooth sat in his lap.

Ken was pulling back, holding a hand to his face. Blood spurted and spilled off his chin.

“Fuck!” he screamed.

“So, want to try biting me again?” Dean asked, not actually feeling cocky, but knowing sounding it could help his chances.

Ken pulled out a knife.

Dean’s stomach dropped.

Fuck, that wasn’t good.

With his feet and mouth as his only defense, Dean kicked and bit at the bleeding monster like crazy. He ended up having a foot pressing down hard against his crotch as he got him on the floor, and his arm was in his teeth, Dean growling like a wild animal.

The knife dropped.

Dean slammed his foot down on the monster’s crotch, knowing that should put any guy out of commission for awhile. He was rewarded with a grunt, and then a whine. Thinking maybe more damage would do some good, he smashed his foot down again, this time even catching the hand that was instinctively going to protect him in between his legs. With that taken care of, Dean unceremoniously shuffled in a circle around the pole he was tied to, till he could grab the knife with his hands.

Just as he started sawing at the blade, Ken grabbed his hands. Dean wouldn’t let go.

The knife slipped into a finger. He still wouldn’t let go.

Letting out a fierce cry, he pulled himself to his feet, arms still tied backwards behind him, and it made his back twinge horrible. It ached. And his wrists burned from friction against the rope, and rust on the pole that had caught his skin on the way up. This threw the monster off, and Dean was able to cut through the rope.

Without having to think, he slammed into the monster, tackling him down to the ground. They landed near the bags with the bodies. Now he knew what horrible scent was filling his nose. Ammonia, bleach, all used to try and cover up the rottenness of decomposing flesh.

Dean’s jeans started slipping down as he tackled the monster, and his blood rushed in his ears. But he didn’t start taking advantage of that. Instead, he was trying to throw Dean off of him. They tussled, but eventually, after some hits on both sides that left Dean’s body numb before it began to throb, he grabbed Ken’s head and slammed it repeatedly against the stone floor.

Blood splattered.

It slowed him down, but he wasn’t dead yet. Not really thinking about it, Dean brought the knife to the thing’s mouth, and cut, and cut deep. An inhuman screech left it, fingers digging painfully into Dean’s arm, but he got out a tooth. It was long, like the root had been jammed all the way up in the monster’s cheekbone. Running on pure instinct, Dean took the tooth, and sliced open the thing’s throat with it.

Golden light burst behind the dark brown eyes, and blood that might’ve been just a bit brighter than human blood, splashed over Dean as it spilled from the slit in his throat.

With a horrible gagging breath, Ken —  _ it _ — died.

Dean was breathing heavy, and he listed off the body, just barely catching himself. No commotion sounded above, saying that the bartender — or whoever he really was — wasn’t around. Dean dragged himself up, limbs shaking, adrenaline no longer taking the edge off his grogginess, and he searched the pockets of Ken’s jeans.

Dean found his phone.

He dialed, put it to his ear.

There was an answer immediately.

John’s voice came through the other end as a yell, and Dean just pleaded, tears in his eyes, “Dad, I need some help.”

Dean was standing in front of the bar, leaning against a wall when John pulled up in the Impala. His face didn’t have the anger on it that Dean had expected, but fear. Luckily, Dean didn’t look as bad as he had in the basement. He pulled his pants back up, and tightened his belt till it hurt, not wanting them to come down again unless he willed it. He washed up in the bathroom too after searching the bar and realizing it was empty. Weak daylight had risen above the horizon, making everything a hazy gray.

Now, Dean was just sore, tired, and had some cuts that wouldn’t be able to start scabbing without some serious medical attention. At least his head wasn’t as bad as his shoulder.

John got out of the Impala, but he didn’t wrap Dean up in a hug.

Knowing what was probably coming, Dean took his hands out of his pockets, straightened his aching back, and bowed his head.

“Sorry, sir. I thought I could find what we were hunting.”

“Did you?” John demanded.

“Dead in the basement.”

John pat Dean on the shoulder (thankfully his uninjured one), and went into the bar to check out the scene.

Dean relaxed his stance, shoulders falling down. He just about collapsed, but was able to get into the passenger’s seat of the Impala, maybe only semi-coherent. It was better than nothing.

John came back and didn’t appraise him.

He just started driving.

And that was that.


End file.
